She can feel the symptoms start to build. The craving, the tremors, the withdrawal. She starts to pace the floor at a frantic pace. How can she not? How can she stop? The thrill, the healing, the peace. How can she give that up? How can it end? The comments, the love, the encouragement. Where will it come from now? Where can she go to seek it next?
Her psyche is clawing its way out to tell a story. Her memories of the past, her child, her work, the daily grind, the small moments that make her heart sing. She’s hungry to take in others moments and her fingers are itching to commiserate, to praise, to savor in the slice of someone else’s moment, to be in awe of the talent that she’s been privilege to for the last 31 days. How can she thank them? How can she express how she is changed through their words? How they have touched her heart and taken her along on a journey?
She can get a hit every week, but will it suffice? She’s not sure. The symptoms are already overwhelming. She’s seeing a story in every moment. The whispers of a three-year old to a scared kitten, the way the cold wet morning gave way to a bright sunny afternoon, the discarded plastic eggs lying on the table already forgotten. She’s left wondering what the others are feeling. It’s like the breathtaking scenery outside her window has had the shades drawn closed before her eyes. She can no longer take in the beauty that she has been devouring for the past month. She’s wondering if they are feeling the same tremors, if their fingers are itching as much as hers. What would they find their solace in?
She’s must power through and wrangle her way past the frantic and find comfort in her words as her fingers fly over the keys and scrawl the words across the pages of her now filled and bursting collection. Knowing that filling it for her own satisfaction is the best buzz of all but unable to quell the craving. Until Tuesdays. On Tuesdays, she goes back.